A light touch along the dusty surface, raising the scent of old roses and musty perfumes.

Once, this dresser was pristine and free of dust. Finduilas had arranged his collection of seashells here with such maternal pride that he thought his face would crack from smiling. She had spent hours with him, setting out arrangement after altered arrangement on the dark surface, until they finally completed it. “I am proud of you,” she said.

The dead are gone, and they will ne’er return. Yet still, for memory’s sake, he took the small white handkerchief from the drawer, and pocketed it.

Later that night, sleepless and studying the delicate embroidery, he slipped out of bed and began to roam the halls. His wandering feet led him all over the Citadel, until he finally ended up before his father’s study, seeing a flickering light from the door, which stood ajar.

His father stood by the window, staring out at the skies. His gaze was absent, remote. When he glanced back to see his son waiting by the door, he beckoned, and Boromir walked over.

Father and son stood in silence, watching the night pass by, and both thought of the same person.

Unraveling the crystal’s riddle has yielded dozens of failed attempts. Success is finite, and numerous scars now play across his hands: the flames are impartial and implacable masters. Knots of ruined gems mock him, and chant his failures for the world to hear.